


Infinity

by Whedonista93



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Immortality, Modern Era, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:01:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24636487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whedonista93/pseuds/Whedonista93
Summary: In the twenty-fifth year of her reign, Queen Sansa Stark joins some of her bannermen on a hunt and disappears.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 34
Kudos: 135





	1. Chapter 1

Her bannermen begin to age and succumb to the Stranger as her face remains unlined and her hair as vibrant as ever. She remains unmarried, and names young Lyanna Mormont as her successor ten years into her reign. Her mother aged well, so it takes nearly two decades before her people start eyeing her warily. She uses lemon juice to lighten her hair at the temples and carefully applied ash and khol to add lines to her eyes for the next few years. In the twenty-fifth year of her reign, Queen Sansa Stark joins some of her bannermen on a hunt and disappears. After an extended search, Lyanna Mormornt is named Queen in the North.

Sansa goes North first, tries to find Jon, manages to find Tormund.

Tormund, hair still every bit as red as Sansa’s, shakes his head. “Aye, he traveled with us for many years,” he tells her, more serious than she’s ever seen him. “‘Til he realized we weren’t losin’ our pretty faces.”

Sansa gasps, feeling very much like someone had punched her in the stomach.

“Thought it was just you, eh?”

Sansa nods. “Where did he go?”

The Wildling shrugs. “What’s west of Westeros?”

Sansa turns her face to the west. She takes a deep breath and faces Tormund again. “Come with me?”

Tormund travels west with her, and then beyond.


	2. Chapter 2

She starts writing and sketching everything she can remember, as the years pass, and by the end of the twentieth century, she and Tormund are both rather heavily tattooed - an extra effort to never forget the important things.

Needle runs along the side of her right forearm.

Lady sits primly on her left thigh.

A three eyed raven observes the world from the back of her right shoulder.

A kraken wraps around her left hip.

A large, snarling hound with a little bird perched on its shoulder stands at attention over her heart.

Trials are as important to remember as triumphs - a reminder not to let history repeat itself.

She has two simple bands tattooed around her ring finger, after wedding bands come into fashion.

The Iron Throne sits on her left ankle, crowns stacked above it - the antler crown of Joffrey and Tommen Baratheon, Stannis Baratheon’s flaming crown, Renly Baratheon’s rose and stag crown, Robb's crown of Northern swords, Cersei's lion circlet, an Iron Islands driftwood crown, and her own direwolf circlet. A dragon drifts above all of them, near her knee.

The house words of many of the families that played in the game of thrones, directly or not, willingly or not, run parallel to her spine, her own family words directly on top of her spine, covering most of her back.

_ Here we Stand _

_ Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken _

_ Ours is the Fury _

_ Family, Duty, Honor _

_ Winter is Coming _

_ We Do Not Sow _

_ Hear Me Roar _

_ Our Blades are Sharp _

_ Fire and Blood _


	3. Chapter 3

Tormund approaches his memory far less politically, not that it surprises Sansa. She’s rather fond of his irreverence after literal centuries at his side. 

A snarling, blue-eyed polar bear covers most of his back.

An army of wights takes up all of his left arm, and the faces of Wilding brothers and sisters he’s lost take up his right. 

Sansa laughs for an hour when he comes home with the Bolton and Umber sigils tattooed on his ass.

Eastwatch by the Sea sits above his left ankle.

A bonfire licks its way up his right leg.

A series of runes wraps from the top of the bonfire nearly to his groin.

They both have infinity symbols on their right wrists - a reminder of all the days they’ve passed and all the days still to come.

Between their height, hair, and tattoos, they garner stares wherever they go. One of the few things they agree on is that it’s rather entertaining.


	4. Chapter 4

Tormund swigs the last of his pint before belching loudly.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Gods, you’re disgusting! How have we lived together for so long?”

“No one else understands us,” Tormund says mournfully, flagging the bartender for another beer.

Sansa frowns. “It’s sad how true that is.”

“Oi!” Tormund kicks her lightly under the table. “Tonight is to celebrate. You got fucking tenure after only two years with the university, you brilliant wench! Don’t be so damn melancholy.”

Sansa shrugs. “It’s hard sometimes.”

Tormund looks back at her, then over her shoulder, eyes going wide. “Think you’ll wanna see this for yourself, San.”

Sansa sets her cocktail aside and turns to see what’s caught Tormund’s attention. She admits, she’s a little scared of what could put that kind of shock on Tormund’s face, so she lifts her gaze slowly, eyes starting at the floor. Dark boots, well worn denim, and a snug black thermal lead up to a painfully familiar face, wearing an expression she has no doubt matches her own utter shock. “Impossible,” she breathes, barely above a whisper.


	5. Chapter 5

“You heading to King’s Landing?” Arya asks.  
“I have some unfinished business,” Sandor acquiesces.  
“Me too.”  
“I don’t plan on coming back.”  
“Neither do I.”  
“You gonna leave me to die again?”  
Arya shrugs. “Probably.”  
He convinces her not to go after Cersei, but as dragonfire rains down, and she’s sure she’s going to die anyway, she’s not sure she should have listened to him.  
Despite everything, she finds herself in the rubble of the Red Keep after the madness dies down. She surprises herself by feeling relief when she finds him, prone on top of his brother’s mutilated corpse, a bloody mess,but still breathing.  
His eyes slit open. “Thought you were gonna leave me, girl.”  
Arya shrugs. “I lied.”

It’s easier than she expects to keep Sandor hidden in the shambles of the city.  
She doesn’t think too hard on why she doesn’t tell her siblings. She suspects Bran knows anyway. And when she does allow herself to think on it, she imagines she won’t be able to stand the disappointment on Sansa’s face if Sandor doesn’t survive. She can’t even pretend to understand her sister’s connection with the scarred asshole, but she won’t be the one to break her heart by providing false hope.

“What’s west of Westeros?” She asks her siblings.

Sneaking Sandor onto her ship is more difficult than hiding him in the city, but she manages. He heals. For some reason that neither of them discuss, he continues to travel with her.


	6. Chapter 6

Sandor spends literal centuries cursing the Stranger for not allowing him the release of death. 

The runt gives him a reason to keep on going. She can take care of herself, but every time he thinks of leaving her, he pictures himself running into the Little Bird, and imagines the look on her face when he tells her he left her precious sister on her own. That hypothetical look spears him in the gut every time, so he stays.

Regardless, he curses the Stranger right up until the moment he walks into a bar in the middle of New fucking Dorne and sees that ginger cunt, looking like he hasn’t aged any more than Sandor or Arya, sitting at a high top table with another familiar figure. She turns slowly, red hair cascading down her back, winter blue eyes wide in shock. 

He stands still as a statue, jaw tight as she stands from her stool. He just watches as she crosses the bar. Her strapless top and tight jeans do little to hide her figure, and her heels accentuate her already mile-long legs. Aside from the fact that she’s there at all, he thinks he’s most shocked by the amount of ink covering her skin.

She stops with mere inches to spare between them. The hand she brings up to his scarred cheek trembles. “Sandor?”

It’s the touch that does him in. His arms band around her, pulling her into his embrace. She immediately brings her other arms up, wrapping both around the back of his neck and burying her face in his chest. He brings one hand up to cradle the back of her head, burying his own face in her hair. “Aye, Little Bird.”

She chokes out a sob, and he tightens his arms.

A throat clears. Sandor looks up and sees Giantsbane, with a purse slung over his shoulder, holding up a coat.

The Wildling jerks his head over his shoulder. “We’re drawing attention.”

Sandor glances around, and glares when he catches people staring. He snatches the coat and helps Sansa into it without ever completely releasing her. She clings to his arm almost painfully tight as they step out onto the street - he finds he doesn’t mind, and leaves his own hand over hers where they’re clasped at his elbow.

“Best pay attention to where you’re walkin’, Clegane,” Giantsbane chides. “Don’t think the little lady there is like to watch where she’s goin’.”

Sandor jerks his gaze up from their hands and finds Sansa is indeed staring raptly at his face. He glances back at the wildling. “Where are we going? I need a fucking drink.”

“Aye,” Giantsbane agrees. “Our apartment isn’t far. We’ve got a well-stocked bar.”

Sandor nods and follows, continuing to sneak glances down at Sansa.

The world doesn’t start to right itself around him until Giantsbane leads them through the door of a penthouse. He glances around and finds the apartment reminds him of nothing so much as the North. The furniture is sturdy wood, mostly antique, and everything is in neutral colors. It’s completely at odds with the thoroughly modern building. There’s a painting of Winterfell over the mantle of a fireplace that he imagines isn’t often used in the warmth of New Dorne.

Giantsbane closes the door, then steps in front of Sansa and grasps her shoulders gently. “San, you in there?”

Sansa blinks slowly. “Tor?”

Giantsbane smiles. “Right here.”

She glances up at Sandor again, then back at her fellow ginger. “I’m not dreaming?”

He shakes his head. “Nay, the crotchety old fucker’s really there next to you, lass.”

Sansa lets out a shuddering sigh. 

Giantsbane smiles softly. “Why don’t you put something more comfortable on while I get drinks and then we can sit and catch up, eh? I know you hate those jeans as much as you love them.”

Sansa looks down at her pants, up at Sandor, back to Tormund, back to her pants, then back to Sandor again. She releases Sandor’s arm and kicks her shoes off as she shrugs out of her jacket, then shimmies out of her jeans and leaves everything in a pile by the door before tugging Sandor over to the large leather couch. He can’t take his eyes off her legs. He allows her to shove him lightly into the corner and doesn’t object when she plops down next to him, close enough that her legs brush his thigh when she crosses them, facing him.

She smiles tremulously. “You’re really here.”

“Aye, Little Bird,” he reaches across the scant space between them and takes her hand, much like she did his across the table so long ago. “I’m here.” He brushes his thumb idly over the bands inked into her ring finger and lets himself drink her in - really look at her. He freezes when his eyes reach her bared shoulder. He releases her hand and lifts his thumb to brush over the snarling hound inked right over her heart. He presses his thumb over the little bird perched on its shoulder. He takes in the detail - the bared teeth and raised hackles, the scars over one side of its face. “Could’ve had a pretty little pooch.”

She brings her hand up to rest over his. “It wouldn’t have been you if I did that.”

He closes his eyes. “Sansa…”

She squeezes his hand. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

He opens his eyes, and can’t help but reach up and brush away the tear running down her cheek.


	7. Chapter 7

Tormund trundles in from the kitchen, setting a tray with glasses and a full decanter on the coffee table before dropping into one of the massive chairs across from the couch. “Told you we couldn’t be the only ones, San.”

Sandor’s hand drops from her face, and he seems to be trying to sink into the couch. “Are you two…”

“No,” Sansa shakes her head.

Tormund grins. “Well, there was that one time…”

Sansa groans and rolls her eyes, but she smiles. “Gods, Tor! That was literally a hundred years ago. And we were both very drunk.”

The wilding winks. “Aye. It was good, though.”

Sansa’s smile softens and she nods. “It was, but it will  _ never _ happen again.”

Tormund shrugs. “Of course it won’t. You’ve got your bloody dog back. And I’m still waiting for Bri to leave the golden cunt.”

Sansa rolls her eyes again. “Tor, Brienne has put up with Jaime even longer than you and I have put up with one another. Give it up.”

Tor grins and shakes his head. “Never.”

“Brienne of fucking Tarth and Jaime fucking Lannister are still alive?” Sandor interrupts their familiar banter.

Sansa turns her eyes back to him and nods. “Yes. Still on Tarth, actually. It’s always remained in her family and it’s turned into a haven of sorts for those of us… well, immortal has never quite felt like the right word,” she shrugs, “but it’s the best anyone’s come up with.”

“How many?”

Sansa shrugs. “Myself and Tormund, obviously.” She reaches across and takes his hand again. “You. Then there’s Jaime and Brienne and Tyrion. Davos Seaworth came through New Dorne a few years ago. We’re fairly certain Jon’s still alive, but we’ve never actually been able to track him down.” Sansa frowns. “Brienne said Podrick Payne keeps in touch with her. I’ve seen a few sculptures over the years that make me think Gendry Baratheon is still about.”

“Aye,” Sandor nods. “Gendry’s still around. And Yara Greyj-” a trilling comes from his pocket and he shifts his hip to dig an old flip phone out of his pocket. Sansa catches  _ Runt  _ on the display screen as Sandor curses before answering. “Seven fucking hells!” He flips the phone open with a gruff, “What?” He flinches at whatever response he gets. “Never made it a step past the door of the damn bar. Ran into someone. Yeah, I’m a few blocks away. Come meet me here. Address is…” Sansa leans over him and snatches a magazine off the side table, flipping it over to reveal the address. Sandor rattles it off. “Come up to the penthouse. Yeah, the bloody penthouse. Don’t be a fucking brat.” He snaps the phone shut and tosses it on the coffee table, filling two glasses from the decanter and handing one to Sansa before sitting back again.

Sansa raises an eyebrow.

Sandor just shakes his head. He keeps staring at her.

“Do I have something unseemly somewhere on my person?” She finally asks impatiently.

Sandor smirks. “Little Bird, I’ve spent a lot of years thinking about you, and almost as many thinking you were dead. And now you’re sitting in front of me damn near naked.” He traces a finger over the lines of Lady’s snout and she can’t quite suppress a shudder. “And you’re covered in all manner of interesting new things.”

Sansa smiles sadly. “Nothing new. All old, really. Reminders of everything we fought for, so long ago.”

A knock sounds at the door.

Sandor snorts. “That was fast. You’d best get that one, Little Bird.”


	8. Chapter 8

Arya pushes into the dim interior of the bar and frowns when she can’t find Sandor among the occupants. She stalks up to the bar and flags down the bartender. “Oi! Seen a big fucker in here tonight? Dark hair, burn scars on his face?”

The bartender shakes their head. “Sorry, lass.”

Arya’s frown deepens and she pulls her phone out.

“What?” Sando barks in lieu of greeting.

“Where are you?” Arya demands. “You were supposed to wait at the bar.”

“Never made it past the door of the damn bar,” he grumbles. “Ran into someone.”

“Someone you know? Are you close?”

“Yeah, I’m a few blocks away. Come meet me here. Address is,” he trails off and there’s a rustling noise in the background before he rattles off an address a few blocks away. “Come up to the penthouse.”

“The penthouse?!” She scoffs incredulously.

“Yeah, the bloody penthouse,” he growls back. “Don’t be a fucking brat.”

The line goes dead and Arya frowns down at her phone. He sounds like his same usual grumpy self, not like he’s in trouble, but Arya traverses the blocks quickly anyway. She fidgets impatiently the whole elevator ride to the top floor, and debates briefly between knocking or kicking the door in, then remembers she’s not armed due to the nature of her last meeting, and thinks about Sandor not indicating he was in danger, and opts to knock.

She hears soft footsteps and then the slide of a lock before the door swings open. She looks past the person at the door first, trying to assure herself Sandor is okay. She glares at him when she sees him lounging on a leather sofa with a glass of some dark liquor in hand. Assured that he’s fine, she swings her gaze back to the doorway and up to whoever opened i- “Sansa?”

Sansa is standing in front of her, in nothing but a pair of dark panties and a fucking tube top, with wide, wet, shocked eyes, hands covering her mouth. “San, is that really you?”

“Arya,” Sansa breathes out, choking on a sob.

Arya surges forward, wrapping her arms tightly around her sister.

Sansa laughs brightly and wraps her arms around Arya’s shoulder. “Gods, the only way this day could get better would be if Jon showed up.”

Arya pulls back abruptly. “Jon’s alive?”

Sansa shrugs a little helplessly. “We think so, but we’ve never been able to find him.”

“Oh, I’ll bloody well find him,” Arya vows. “I just didn’t know to look. I never even thought he would still be alive after the raven from Castle Black that he went north of the wall again.”

Sansa tugs her into the apartment. “Tor, get another glass, will you?”

The towering ginger Wildling that Arya has only a vague memory of, from so long ago, rises obligingly out of a chair Arya hadn’t been able to see from the door. He grins. “A good day for reunions, apparently.” He curtsies ridiculously as he passes Arya. “Welcome to our home, princess.”

“Not a fucking princess,” Arya snarls back.

Sansa rolls her eyes and tugs Arya all the way into the living room. “Don’t mind him. He’s harmless.”

Tormund comes back and fills the glass he brought with him, handing it to Arya as Sansa drops onto the couch, completely plastering herself against Sandor’s side. Arya shakes her head, takes a large gulp of the drink in her hand, savoring the burn, before dropping to the other end of the couch. Sansa immediately brings her legs up on the couch, tucking her feet under Arya’s leg, resting her back against Sandor’s side. Sandor, for his part, wraps his arm around Sansa’s shoulders, and Sansa’s free hand - the one not holding her own drink - immediately raises to grip Sandor’s arm, seemingly trying to hold it more tightly to herself.

Sansa beams happily. “I can’t believe you’re both here.”

“I missed you,” Arya admits. She eyes Sandor over her sister’s shoulder. “And now that we’ve got you back, maybe this one,” she jerks her chin toward Sandor, “will stop whinging and panting over not having you.”

Sandor visibly tenses, his expression almost fearful.

Sansa untucks her feet and turns back toward him. “Sandor?

He lets out a shaky breath. “Aye?”

“What does she mean?”

“What’s it fucking sound like she means?”

Sansa rolls her eyes, then slings a leg over Sandor’s lap, essentially straddling him and trapping him in the conversation, which he clearly rather desperately wants to avoid. Sansa gently chucks his chin with her knuckles, forcing him to look at her. “I need you to  _ tell _ me.”

Sandor closes his eyes, swallows thickly, blows out a breath, opens his eyes again and shoots a brief but heated glare at Arya.

Arya simply smirks back and sips on her drink.

Sandor drags his eyes back to Sansa and rests his hands gently on her hips.


	9. Chapter 9

Sandor hesitates only briefly before tightening his grip on Sansa’s hips and standing.

Sansa squeaks in surprise, but almost immediately wraps her long legs around his waist and brings her hands up to his shoulders.

Her grunts and tightens his hold. “I’m not having this conversation in front of the runt and the bloody wildling.”

Sansa jerks her head toward the hallway behind her. “Second door on your right.”

Sandor nods and strides out of the living room. He kicks the partially open door open the rest of the way, then kicks it all the way shut behind them. He shifts one arm to band around her back, helping support her, as he reaches blindly for a light switch on the wall behind him. Once he finds it, he glances around over Sansa’s shoulder and finds she’s directed him to what is clearly her bedroom. It’s softer in here than the rest of the apartment. The walls are painted a pale blue, and a white four-poster bed dominates the center of one wall. Sandor forces his gaze from it and moves toward the giant, overstuffed chair in another corner. He has to avoid the books strewn everywhere in the vicinity before he manages to drop heavily into the chair.

Sansa is still staring at him, blue eyes wide and curious and maybe a bit wary. “Sandor?”

Sandor sighs. “When you’ve lived as long as we have, Little Bird… we learn not to mince words or waste opportunities, don’t we?”

She nods.

He reaches up and brushes an errant strand of red hair behind her ear, leaves his hand gently cupping her jaw, thumb lightly tracing her lower lip. “Surely you know I loved you, Sansa.”

She exhales shakily and nods. “I suspected.”

“That night… when I told you only one thing could make me happy…”

She blinks rapidly, but her eyes never leave his face.

“I couldn’t have had it back then,” he says ruefully. “Not sure I can have it now either.” He looks into her eyes, knowing he probably looks like a dog begging for scraps at his master’s table but unable to bring himself to care.

Sansa doesn’t answer. She just kisses him.


End file.
